


Gone Fishin'

by Jwash



Category: Imperial Radch Series - Ann Leckie
Genre: Fishing, Other, Vacation, let her rest, ro2sid exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-23 21:12:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18557962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jwash/pseuds/Jwash
Summary: After years of patching up endless injuries without a break, Medic has taken a holiday. How does the hardest working person aboard Mercy of Kalr relax? Does she even remember how to relax, after so long?





	Gone Fishin'

Medic let out a sigh of contentment and leaned back in her deckchair, cradling a cup of cooling tea. Her fishing line lay slack, her catch bucket sat empty, and she couldn’t have been happier. Around her, the reedbeds and grass rustled in a warm breeze, and the sunlight dappled between flecks of cloud as they raced across the sky of Athoek.

She’d admit she’d been unsure when Mercy of Kalr (in its new role as acting-vice-captain) had demanded that she take three days leave downwell to prevent stress from overwork. She’d argued, if she was overworked, surely she couldn’t afford to take time off, but within seconds of stepping off the shuttle, she had felt a great weight lift from her shoulders. Whatever might happen on Athoek Station, she was on Leave. 

Her line twitched as a fish bit, and she frowned. She stayed sitting, and with one hand drew a knife and cut the line, letting it fall across the placid stream. The line whipped away as the fish swam away with its prize. The line would start to degrade and decompose soon, and although Medic felt a little guilt at leaving a fish with a hook in its mouth, her sympathy was limited for a creature that would bite an unbaited hook. She set her tea down and set to winding out a new length of line and tying on a new hook, as slowly and methodically as she could.

The communicator beside her chirped an incoming call. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and smiled a beatific smile. She reached over languorously and pressed ‘divert’. Lieutenant Tisarwat’s high, strained voice came through the speaker.

“...some kind of accident on the Concourse, the Fleet Captain is bleeding, Seivarden is having a panic attack, and Zeiat is complaining of a stomach ache but won’t tell us what she’s eaten-”

Medic pressed ‘cancel’ and the call cut off, giving her a little shiver of satisfaction. She turned back to the stream and watched through the crystal clear water as fish ignored her hook and swam on. She took a long sip of tea and checked her watch. In half an hour, her leave would be over, and she would have to return to Athoek Station and a whole world of contusions, abrasions, fractures, haemorrhages, mental breakdowns, drug addictions, persistent rashes, and weird growths, but until then. Oh until then.

“The doctor,” she said to herself, fingers twining around her teacup as she sank into the fabric of her deckchair, “is out.”


End file.
